Chiikawa: Ningyo no Shima no Himitsu (Chiikawa: The Secret of Mermaid Island) is, above all else, a film about music. Because the source material is a manga, it has no sound — but the film exploits that absence brilliantly. Anime critic Fujitsu Ryōta explores this in the 133rd installment of his column “Anime no Mon V,” arguing that the film earns its existence as a cinematic work precisely through the way it deploys sound.
Note: This article contains significant spoilers for the film.
Synopsis: An Island of Deception
The film adapts the entirety of volume 8 of the manga. Chiikawa and friends receive a flyer promising 100 times the usual reward for what is described as an easy “toubatsu” (monster-extermination job) on a remote island, with delicious food thrown in for almost nothing. They arrive to a warm welcome — but the island is terrorized by a giant Siren that attacks and devours the islanders. The Siren commands two mermaids; a third was eaten by someone unknown, and the Siren will not stop its rampage until the culprit is found. The “easy job” turns out to be slaying the Siren itself.
The Challenge of Adaptation
The plot follows the manga faithfully, but animation demands things manga cannot provide: the construction of three-dimensional space, lighting, and the management of timing in dialogue and performance. The central challenge was preserving the source’s deliberately simple aesthetic while producing images worthy of a cinema screen — a challenge the film meets impressively. And with animation comes sound, which the film uses to full effect: an opening song by the islanders whose lyrics are so one-sided they border on fraudulent; the beautiful, terrifying voice of the Siren; Usagi’s wordless rap; and finally, “Kyō no Hi wa Sayōnara” (Farewell for Today), sung by a children’s choir with an innocence that cuts straight to the film’s hidden fault line.
Chiikawa and the Grammar of Fairy Tales
Fujitsu frames the world of Chiikawa through the five stylistic principles that folklore researcher Max Lüthi identified in fairy tales:
- One-dimensionality — No boundary exists between the natural and supernatural worlds. In the film, a bestiary matter-of-factly states that eating mermaid flesh grants eternal life, and the story confirms this as fact.
- Flatness — Characters and the world lack psychological or physical depth. Chiikawa and friends do not grow or change internally; everyday objects like yakisoba and curry roux appear without world-building justification.
- Abstract style — A “forest” in a fairy tale exists only insofar as the story needs it; it is never described in concrete detail. Chiikawa’s visual style embodies this principle, which is precisely what makes adapting it to a large screen so difficult.
- Isolation and universal connection — The hero has no ancestry or background, yet this very isolation allows them to stumble upon what is most essential. In the film, Chiikawa discovers the evidence and witnesses the culprit entirely by accident — not through investigation.
- Sublimation and world-inclusiveness — Fairy-tale elements are abstracted into pure form, which paradoxically allows them to reflect the full breadth of human experience. Chiikawa’s characters have no proper names, and “toubatsu” and “grass-weeding” are far from realistic — yet this is exactly why readers map them onto the real world.
The Crack: Where the Film Breaks Its Own Rules
What makes the film genuinely provocative is where it steps outside this fairy-tale framework. Near the end, Chiikawa accidentally discovers who ate the mermaid. A flashback confirms the culprit’s desperate motivation. The crucial point: Chiikawa never tells anyone.
Why does Chiikawa stay silent? The film refuses to answer directly. This narrative structure — “we are compelled to imagine the character’s inner life, yet that inner life is never revealed” — is what Fujitsu calls the film’s defining tension. It just barely preserves Chiikawa’s “flatness” as a fairy-tale character while simultaneously forcing the audience to wrestle with the culprit’s motive and the nature of the resolution.
How “Kyō no Hi wa Sayōnara” Widens the Crack
The song “Kyō no Hi wa Sayōnara,” performed with childlike purity by a children’s choir, amplifies this tension. Its simple lyrics about friendship take on layered meanings in the film’s context: “forever” evokes eternal life; “freedom” evokes what has been lost to an endless curse; “trusting each other” evokes a cruel coincidence that no amount of trust could have prevented. These resonances arise because the audience holds privileged knowledge of the full story — and the only character within the film who shares anything close to that knowledge is Chiikawa. Hearing the song, the audience cannot help but imagine what Chiikawa is feeling, even as the film withholds that answer entirely.
From Fairy Tale to Modern Drama
Through this mechanism, the film leads its audience to sense that there is a drama of interiority happening inside its characters — a transgression of the fairy-tale form, which derives its richness precisely from abstraction and the absence of psychology. Fujitsu concludes that it is this phase transition — from the formal world of fairy tale to the modern literary concern with inner life — that makes the Chiikawa film so lastingly affecting.
About the Author
Fujitsu Ryōta (born 1968, Shizuoka Prefecture) is an anime critic whose books include «Anime Hyōronka» Sengen, Channel wa Itsumo Anime, Seiyūgo, and Bokura ga Anime wo Miru Riyū. He teaches anime courses at various cultural centers and hosts a monthly live-stream on the first Friday of each month via “Anime no Mon Channel.”
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